by Peter Telep
LaPorte hung a right and then another sharp left onto Murrayville Road, a two-lane highway spanned by power lines and cutting through swaths of dense forest. They crossed the bridge over Interstate 40 and streaked past the New Hanover Country Fire Department at speeds nearing eighty mph. Whether LaPorte was a bad driver or impaired Johnny could not be sure, but the truck wandered to the right, then the left, unable to hold a straight line as the blaring bass note of LaPorte’s mud tires changed key under fierce acceleration.
They were barreling now toward the intersection of North College Road, where the light turned red, yet LaPorte held speed. Johnny and Josh rode abreast but kept several car lengths back, in case the kid took a shot at them. What would he do now? Blow the light? Turn left? Right? Johnny stiffened as they neared the corner, and LaPorte cut the wheel sharply, about a hundred feet before the intersection. He bounced off the road, the rear tires airborne as he reached a grassy section with poor runoff to their right, part of a Kangaroo Gas Station whose sign shimmered in the thick air. As the rooster tails of muck rose higher in his wake, LaPorte raced between a maze of power poles, coming too close to one on the right and snapping off his side mirror. He spun out, accelerated again, then slid almost sideways onto North College Road, leaving twin trails of mud.
Meanwhile, Johnny and Josh opted for the gas station’s side entrance, and they rumbled past the empty pumps and fell in behind LaPorte before he gained any ground. North College was a four-lane road, and LaPorte exploited all that extra real estate, changing lanes haphazardly, then drifting once more to the middle.
Johnny’s speedometer touched ninety, and Josh veered in closer and threw up his hand, as if to say, how long can this go on? Johnny nodded and pointed ahead. They weren’t giving up. Hang on.
More gas stations, churches, and a Food Lion supermarket blurred by, and Johnny itched with the desire to draw his .45, race up, and shoot out one of LaPorte’s tires to finish this. It might come to that, evidence be damned. They reached the overpass at Route 17, their engines and tires echoing loudly off the concrete rails on either side as they flew over the cars below. Given LaPorte’s serpentine path, Johnny was thankful there no other vehicles on the road. However, their luck could run out fast. It did. Johnny wove into the left lane and spotted the running lights of a car about a quarter mile ahead. They swept toward that unsuspecting driver like remora trailing a white shark.
Johnny signaled to Josh, who stole a look for himself and flashed a thumb’s up. They slowed a little more. The gap widened. LaPorte charged up behind the car, but at the last second the driver took a hard right, disappearing down a side street. Johnny breathed a sighed then geared up, as did Josh. They were slammed back into their seats and resumed the chase. The business district gave way to residential homes seated on acre-size lots with dirt driveways and carports like hives for piles of junk. LaPorte blew through the red light at Glen Eden Drive, narrowly missing the blue minivan that had triggered the signal. Johnny rolled to the left, whipping behind the van then leaning upright on LaPorte’s tail. Josh returned to Johnny’s draft.
Just ahead, the road forked where North College merged with Castle Hayne Road. LaPorte kept right, perhaps a little too far, leaping ahead at nearly one hundred miles per hour. A speed limit sign vanished beneath his truck, appearing flattened on the other end. The truck’s body leaned hard as they reached Castle Hayne, where LaPorte took out a row of mailboxes before straightening his wheel. Like North College, this road was a four-lane highway with ample room and creative opportunities for LaPorte to destroy more obstacles in his path. Once again, he crossed the dotted yellow line and into the left lane. Johnny thought the kid might plow head-on into the Hardee’s sign rushing toward them. Cutting the wheel, LaPorte jerked right and punched the accelerator.
The road narrowed to two lanes as they left the small town of Castle Hayne, and Johnny signaled for Josh to hold position. He blasted ahead into the oncoming traffic lane. Now riding alongside the truck, Johnny raised his arm, motioning the kid to pull over and end it now. LaPorte’s face shown weirdly through the side window, half in shadow, his long hair clumped like a bundle of yarn spilling over his head. Johnny waved again.
As expected, LaPorte rolled his wheel, believing he could knock Johnny off his bike. However, Johnny had already backed off the throttle to slip in behind the truck. He felt for his pistol, aching to draw it.
The maneuver, it seemed, must have unnerved LaPorte, because he lost control, ripping off the road and clipping a pole beneath a billboard for Tim’s Air Conditioning Service. The detour only cost him a few seconds, though, as he barely slowed down, and those Caterpillar-like tires chewed their way back onto the road.
Northeast Cape Fear River was a blackwater tributary lying just a mile ahead, and as they approached, guardrails indicated that the heavily wooded embankments had grown much steeper. There were no streetlamps in this more rural stretch, the darkness now enveloping them.
Headlights rose in the distance. One pair, then another. Johnny gripped his handlebars even tighter. They were still down to two lanes and would lose the shoulder as they reached the bridge. LaPorte edged to the right, coming within a foot of the guardrail. Then he turned more sharply, careening across the road and into the left side guardrail. That impact sent him caroming to the right; however, the oncoming driver had panicked over LaPorte’s fluctuating headlights and had changed lanes to pass. LaPorte shifted lanes, too, and they were still locked in their game of chicken.
Johnny waved to Josh, and they slowed dramatically, just as LaPorte veered around the oncoming car, missing it by mere inches. The second car shot in behind the first, and that driver passed with a more comfortable gap and horn blaring.
Before their engines faded, LaPorte’s right front tire blew out with a violent bang, catapulting the truck into the guardrail. Given the height of the Dodge, the size of the tires, the velocity of the vehicle, and the angle of approach, only one thing could happen. It was physics, pure and simple.
His mouth agape, Johnny slowed even more as the truck burst through the guardrail, sending pieces of twisted metal boomeranging toward the gloom. The pickup sailed above the steep embankment like a horse in a steeplechase, the image so surreal that Johnny glimpsed it in slow motion, as though his brain were trying to catch up. With the stench of fuel and burning rubber already filling the air, the truck’s nose pitched forward—
And LaPorte plunged twenty feet toward an impenetrable wall of swamp gums, pines, and cypress. As Johnny and Josh slowed to a stop, the pickup struck the trees with the boom of an artillery shell. At once, glass shattered, wood splintered, metal buckled, engine hoses burst free and hissed liquids, and the truck slammed onto all four tires with a thundering splash into the swamp.
Johnny was already off his bike, bounding toward the section of missing guardrail, with Josh shouting for him to wait. At the rail, Johnny started down the embankment, but his footing was tenuous, the angle too steep, his heels already slipping. He paused, leaned back, and found himself clutching a clump of grass for support.
“Don’t do it,” Josh said.
“I have to talk to him.”
“I know, but if somebody drives by, it’s over.”
“Is he down there?” Johnny asked. “It’s too dark. I can’t see.”
“I’ll get a light. But we need to move!”
Johnny squinted at the pickup below, its front end buckled by several trees. The engine had died, its chugging replaced by the ticking and groaning of metal as the pickup bobbed on the water. Josh returned with a flashlight from Johnny’s bike. The beam exposed streaks of blood on the driver’s side door and quarter panel. Josh panned a bit more, and there he was, Mr. Randall LaPorte—or at least part of him. Half his torso had gone through the windshield. Most of his skull was missing. A severed arm had wedged itself between folded sections of the hood and now jutted up like some bizarre antenna.
“He’s done,” said Josh. “We need to go. Somebody could’ve called the p
olice.”
Johnny cursed. And cursed again.
“Come on!” screamed Josh. “If they know we’re here, our mission’s over. Let’s roll!”
Josh was right. No Recon Marine would ever let himself get compromised on an objective, and this was no different. If they were caught, a first-year prosecutor could make a manslaughter case against them in a heartbeat. Grinding his teeth in disgust, Johnny clambered up toward the road.
Back at the bikes, he told Josh they needed to contact Willie—but not here. They drove off, then Johnny signaled that they turn down a wooded side street. With their bikes tucked up close to the perimeter trees, Johnny read a text from Willie, who said they had gone to a gas station, parked, and were waiting. Johnny told him to meet back up at Kyle’s apartment. They would be there in about fifteen minutes.
With their helmets tucked in the crooks of their arms, they sat there for a moment, with Johnny swearing again and Josh rubbing the stubble on his jaw, eyes creased in thought. “As far as Kyle is concerned, we lost his buddy. We don’t know where he is,” said Josh.
“Agreed.”
“But somebody’s going to find him. And if Kyle talks...”
Johnny shook his head. “The kid won’t talk.”
“Oh, really. What do you plan to do with him?”
“I’m going to motivate the young man.”
* * *
Johnny’s nose was about six inches away from Kyle’s. “So when the police search this place, they’ll find four hundred grams of cocaine. According to North Carolina law, you’ll do about fifteen years and pay a fine of about two hundred and fifty K.”
“You don’t even have the drugs.”
“You willing to take that chance?”
“I’ll tell them you planted the stash.”
Johnny lifted an evil grin. “You think anyone will believe that?”
Kyle glanced at his boots.
“Son, you have a choice. You get up tomorrow and you go to work like nothing ever happened. If the police come, you don’t know us. We weren’t here.”
“Or what?”
Johnny cleared his throat and spoke in a rapid fire: “Or... you go running to the cops, you tell them everything. You get us involved, and like I said, we make sure they find the coke. They’ll think you were working with your friend. You might even do extra time for distributing. So, to paraphrase one of my favorite Marines, I’m pleading with you—with tears in my eyes—to do the right thing.”
Johnny was hardly crying. But now the kid was.
“Remember what I said?” Willie asked Kyle. “You got skills. You plan to waste your life on something stupid?”
“No. I’ll go to work tomorrow. Nothing ever happened.”
Corey directed an index finger into Kyle’s face. “If we find out you talked—”
“I won’t say anything.”
“Good man,” said Willie. “Your buddy’s gone. You’re off his payroll. You don’t owe him anything.”
“Except his stuff.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Johnny.
Kyle took a long breath. “I let him crash here for a while. He’s got some clothes in the closet. I think his backpack is still behind the couch. You know what? You can have it all. I just want it out of here.”
Josh and Corey crossed to the sofa as Johnny went on:
“So let me get this straight. You let him live here for a while? Was this before or after you think he stole from your boss.”
Kyle hesitated. “It was for like a week... after.”
“So don’t screw around with us, son. You know he stole the stuff, and you harbored a criminal.”
“I needed the money, all right? You think I make a fortune at that shop? You know how much my rent and tuition cost? Do I look like I have scholarship money?”
“Johnny, check this out,” said Josh. He and Corey had found LaPorte’s backpack, a tan Jansport with rear pocket and suede leather bottom—not the dark-colored pack worn by the man who had killed Daniel.
Josh handed him a piece of 3x5 card stock with perforated edges and printed via laser printer. The card featured a tri-border design, and beneath large Arabic writing was a word in English: Alhamdulillah. Johnny recognized the word as “praise Allah” or something similar. “Prayer card? Bookmark?”
“Do they even use prayer cards?” asked Josh.
Johnny regarded Kyle. “You ever see this before?”
“No, I told you, I don’t know what he did outside of work. If he was a Muslim, I didn’t know or care. He didn’t look like a terrorist, unless a redneck terrorist is what you’re after. I just wanted his money.”
“Oh, man, this is bad,” said Corey. He handed Johnny a blank 9x12 manila envelope, atop of which were some black-and-white pictures printed on computer paper.
Johnny leafed through the photos, which began with a close-up of his house; another showed Elina walking to the mailbox; a third was a tight shot of her leaving with his nieces; and the last one captured Johnny on the driveway with Bomber, Musket, and Rookie. Johnny pulled the guys aside, out of Kyle’s earshot. “LaPorte didn’t kill Daniel and Reva, but I bet he killed my dogs.”
“Why would he have these pictures in his backpack, unless someone else took them and gave them to him, so he could follow,” said Willie.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Johnny.
“Well, for sure he was watching you,” said Corey. “He got his, though, didn’t he?”
“Anything else in there?” Johnny asked, gesturing to the backpack.
“Just a couple of textbooks.”
“Have the kid show you his clothes and anything else. We’ll take it all out of here for him. I want to keep that prayer card, but we’ll ditch the rest.” Johnny turned to Kyle. “All right, son, we’re cutting you loose, trusting you to do the right thing.”
Kyle’s head drooped.
“Look at me,” Johnny ordered. “Time to put on your man pants. Keep your mouth shut. And everything will be okay.”
* * *
Exhausted, Johnny and the others drove back to his house. Josh spent thirty minutes surveying the neighborhood with a pair of Steiners, while Corey and Josh spent some time out back, reconnoitering the canal from Johnny’s dock. It was 0220, and the roads were empty, with no indications of a tail or anyone else watching the house, although they would maintain watch. At first, Johnny assumed that LaPorte could not have been working alone. Then again, this group, whoever they were, knew they had a security leak, and the more spotters they had in place, the greater the risk. LaPorte might have been their last man on the field before they had pulled up stakes and left.
After reconvening in the man cave, Johnny delivered a brief and depressing after action report: “Well, boys, that kid might’ve been our only link to the professor. If we can’t find Shammas, then that’s it. I’m not sure what else do to do.”
Corey, who was seated at the bar and working on the notebook computer, swiveled his chair toward Johnny. “I got an email from Steve in Colombia. He said there’s a competitor down there called I-SOC out of Galveston.”
“Who are they?” asked Willie.
“International Special Operations Consultants,” answered Corey. “They roll like us. Josh and I bumped into them a few times when we were down there. Turns out these guys backed up some Colombian Marines during a raid on a FARC warehouse. They found some explosives stolen from EXSA in Peru. They also confiscated some drums of potassium chlorate. The stuff was manufactured in Brazil by a company called Exportadora Selva Brasileira.”
Johnny had seen potassium chlorate before; it was an odorless white crystal or powder that, when combined with a fuel, formed an explosive mixture. Insurgents in Afghanistan were using it as a new and easier source to make their IEDs.
“Maybe we can talk to some of those I-SOC operators. See if anyone’s heard of Shammas,” said Josh. “I’ll get on that.”
Corey raised his chin at Johnny. “You said Pat was
contacting Billy Brandt. Why don’t you call Pat and see how they’re making out? They’re eight hours ahead of us.”
Johnny sighed. “I figured he’d call me if he had anything.”
“Maybe he does,” said Willie. “He wouldn’t call you at zero two.”
Johnny’s thumb was already tapping across his smartphone’s screen. Pat answered on the second ring. “You’re up late.”
“Been an interesting night.”
“I was going to call you later, but since we’re here—”
“You got something?” Johnny asked excitedly, with the others moving around him to overhear.
“Maybe.”
“Hang on. I’m with Josh, Willie, and Corey. I’ll put you on speaker.”
Pat greeted them, tempering his humor to account for the late hour and Johnny’s tone, then he finally continued: “Okay, this is from my notes. Prior to taking the job at UNC Wilmington, this guy Shammas taught at the National University of Engineering in Lima, Peru. Apparently, he speaks very good Spanish.”
Johnny’s eyes lit up, as did everyone else’s. “So Shammas was in Peru.”
“Roger that. Got something else that might be more actionable for you.”
“Talk to me, bother.”
“Billy picked up some HUMINT near the university in Riyadh. Turns out Shammas has several known aliases.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah, he’s pissed off a few people over the years, and one of them was willing to talk. Billy ran those names, and one came up hot. Mr. Ramzi Ben-Youssef is a licensed real estate broker in... wait for it... North Carolina. He owns a company called Carolina Properties. He has an office up near you in Jacksonville. Coincidence? I think not. Ben-Youssef is Shammas. And he’s your guy.”
“How long has he been up there in Jacksonville?”
“Public records show about three years.”
“So he’s been coming to North Carolina long before he took that teaching job.”
“Roger that.”
“So why’s he working at the university?” Johnny asked.
“Well, it ain’t for just the money, and if this is going where I think, you need to slow down. I don’t want to help you get in trouble.”
